


The One with Breakfast

by uniformly (scramjets)



Series: The One with the .... [3]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4984870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/pseuds/uniformly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Runner's weak spot was his love for sugar pretending to be breakfast food. He was okay with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One with Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/gifts).



> Prompt from Shan, "Hey! I was gonna eat that!"

The box was practically neon and Runner could smell the sugar and artificial colours and flavours from where he stood. He liked to think he was at least taller than children, so that meant the box of cereal had no business being stacked that high. Runner exhaled hard through his nose, set his jaw and lifted himself up onto his toes. The pads of his fingers skimmed the box. All he had to do was unsettle the weight of it. He could jump and bat it down. It worked for his ma’s cat whenever he wanted something, it would definitely work for him. The tinny sound of oldies music drifted from overhead – some slower, softer rendition of _Sea of Heartbreak_. Runner stepped back, glanced first down the aisle and then up along the other side, towards the freezer section. 

Shit. 

He would have really preferred no witnesses, but apparently he wasn’t the only one with a craving for breakfast foods at ass-o’clock in the morning. Runner tracked the length of the guy’s body. No issues grabbing cereal from the top shelf there. He bet the guy could knock down more than a couple of the boxes, too, if Runner went by his arms; the grouping of muscles along his forearms streamline and defined before it narrowed into the point of the elbow where the guy had pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie, fabric bunching.

The guy turned, and Runner whipped his attention back to his original problem, forgetting that it had been a problem until the cartoon character on the box stared down at him. The illustrator probably hadn’t aimed for the design to come across as mocking, the friendly waves of colour coupled with a toucan whose wings were defined enough to hold a spoon. _Jungle Flavour_ , the box promised, which honestly meant nothing, because what sort of jungles was the box referring to? What climate? What continent? 

The sensible option was to grab whatever was stacked at a more reasonable height and Runner ran his attention across the labels: organic. Bran. No added sugar. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said, “I’m not that miserable.”

He’d wait. 

The guy slinked along the aisle, paused every so often to check the back of the box for nutritional detail. Runner shifted his weight, stepped back to survey a greater scope of the cereal. There were always the fruity loops, box just as bright and promising just as much sugar… but he’d been sold on the jungle rings, 100% committed now that he had waited this long, and either the guy or his dignity was going to have to go.

The guy stepped up beside him, so sudden that Runner stiffened. He hadn’t encroached into Runner’s personal space, still a good foot or so away, but every single part of Runner had prickled to attention and he stared at the box in front of him. He was having trouble concentrating on the flashy logo when he could smell the guy beside him, strongly of deodorant underlined with something deeper and more personal. It was just… so intensity intimate, like the guy had only stepped out of the shower, all clean and dripping wet, water puddling at his feet. Maybe he should get the oat cluster things. They were berry flavoured. Runner liked berries and he was always talking about eating healthier. Win-fucking-win.

Hoosier was laughing at him, he felt it in his bones.

The guy lifted an arm, and Runner straightened so fast that he was surprised that his spine didn’t audibly snap. 

Don’t look. Jesus. Don’t look. 

He looked. 

It was the foregone conclusion, and Runner entertained zero regrets because the guy had a magnificent profile. Up close, he was younger than Runner expected, all the lines and angles of his face and body suggesting some years out of adolescence, but a few short of settling into adulthood. 

“Hey,” Runner said, because like hell he was going to let opportunity pass him by. “Hey, while you’re up there, could you grab the jungle rings?”

“Sure, buddy,” the guy said. 

He took a second to shove a box of bran with sultanas or something bland and boring like that into his basket. Then he snagged a jungle rings box, and Runner stepped out of the way only because it was the polite thing to do. The guy held out the box with a grin that was, wow, huge and he shook it when Runner didn’t immediately accept. Runner jerked forward and grabbed it, and it mustn’t have been as awkward or as desperate as it felt, because the guy didn’t even blink, still smiling when he said, “My nephew loves the shit outta those things.”

“Yeah,” Runner said, clutching the box with sweaty hands. “So does mine.” 

He had no nephew.

There was a pause in that space of time where Runner should have thanked the guy and stepped away, but there he was still holding the box like it was some kind of lifeline – or at least, the only thing that allowed him to take up more of the guy’s time. 

Runner never claimed to be fantastic at asking for numbers. He wasn’t Leckie, who could charm anything out of anyone when he was in the mood. That and he had nothing to work with. All he knew of the guy was that he had great forearms and a kid nephew who was as addicted to sugary cereals as he was, which Runner wasn’t sure counted as a point for him.

“Look,” the guy said, a split second before the moment slid into awkward territory. “I’m getting signals here and I just want to ask something.”

Runner’s fingers nearly punctured through the box, but he somehow managed to sound entirely casual when he went: “…Yeah?”

“That box of sugar masquerading as a legitimate food for children,” the guy nodded towards it. “Is that for you?”

Runner never considered himself a liar. He could barely bend the truth. He was the kid who hid behind couches so he didn’t have to share chocolate with an errant cousin, just to avoid a lie. The nephew thing had kind of happened. One of those instances where the mouth worked before the brain could catch up. And this wasn’t going to be a comedy where he’d say, yeah, I have a nephew, the lie culminating until he had to ask to borrow his next door neighbour's kid and pretend they were related. He could only imagine how that would go, but what was worse was the potential amount of shit that Hoosier and Leckie would give him for the rest of his life. 

So Runner said, “I’ll come clean. Yes, this is for me and no, I don’t have a nephew. That was an accident.”

The guy nodded, looking like he was turning Runner’s answer in his head more than he was judging him. Thankfully.

“Okay,” he said, “my name’s Lew, by the way. What I want to know is if you’d let me make you a real breakfast sometime. Not right now – I’ve got work to get to and you’ve got… whatever you’ve got. But, yeah, sometime soon. If you’re into that.”

“I,” Runner said, “—yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

Lew was still grinning, but Runner was too flummoxed to do much more than stare as Lew set down his basket to then dig into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. 

Phone. The realisation jolted through Runner’s body like a live wire. This was actually happening. He had found somebody attractive, and they were interested in return and numbers were being exchanged with the possibility of a date in the near future. 

Lew had said breakfast. Runner doubted the forwardness, considering they were talking about breakfast foods in the first place, but he couldn’t help but read into the implication of it, paired with the long, solid lines of Lew’s body beneath the easy comfort of the hoodie he wore. He felt the heat creep up from beneath the collar of his shirt, skin prickling with awareness, and he almost missed it when Lew asked: “What should I call you?”

“Runner,” he said on reflex. “No. Wait. Shit. That’s—that’s just a nickname.”

Lew was already typing on his phone, thumb sweeping across the screen. He hummed. “You can let me work for your actual name later.” 

The smile Lew favoured Runner with then was much more interesting. Runner had let the breakfast comment slide, but the way Lew looked at him now almost made him pull it back out to re-examine. Runner had to take a steady breath before he gave Lew his number, Lew’s smile turning to a smirk because he definitely noticed. 

“Right,” Lew said once he had flicked off a blank message and pocketed his phone. 

He looked apologetic this time, body half turned towards the exit though the shopping basket was still at his feet. “I’ve gotta get going. But text me. Or I’ll text you. We’ll organise something better than that—“ Lew waved at the box Runner still held. “Whatever _that_ is, because it’s not proper breakfast food.”

“Hey, you’re not the boss of me,” Runner said.

Lew’s brow drifted up towards his hairline and this time, _this time_ , Runner got the message loud and clear. 

“Oh,” Lew said, “don’t worry. We’ll sort that out later.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm up for anything HBO War related on [Tumblr](http://scramjets.tumblr.com).


End file.
